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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121538">Sex-pollen didn't make them do it</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangest_love/pseuds/strangest_love'>strangest_love</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU, Superman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Identity Porn, M/M, Office Blow Jobs, Secret Identity, Sex Pollen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:07:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangest_love/pseuds/strangest_love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clark get sprayed with a sex-pollen during an interview. Bruce has already worked out an antidode (after previous encounter with it as Batman) and Clark is immune to it as an alien. Both can't risk exposing their identities, so they have to pretend to be affected by the pollen. It's not as easy as one might've thought.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>650</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It goes like this: Lex sends a drone with sex pollen to Bruce Wayne’s office - the sneaky tech bypasses all security measures. It’s a fucking shame. It’s also the second time Bruce encounters this annoying device. The first time he was clad in Batman’s clothes while patrolling the city. Shitty drone announced that for the next two hours everyone in it's vicinity will experience sky-high libido and slow deterioration of health unless some kind of fucking-related activity happens.</p><p> </p><p>Bruce endured the experience by locking himself in the Batcave. It was hell. An ordinary body would've started shutting down without proper help in minutes. Mental abilities would be dimmed down to fulfill one purpose - to either find a partner or a release. Bruce had to put to use everything that he’s been taught about breathing, meditation and body-control just to get to the cave safely and suffer through the rest alone, jerking off to get at least some reprieve from the onslaught of overstimulated nervous system. </p><p> </p><p>A week later Bruce was holding an antidote, tailored specifically to him - it was impossible to create one for the general public, not that Bruce stopped his research or gave up.  He just needed time. And it was suddenly up.</p><p> </p><p>Clark I-just-need-some-quotes Kent is sitting awkwardly on a guest chair. He’s trying to take as little space as possible, and he has as much grace and success with it as an elephant in the Apple store would. Bruce feels the coldness of the wall seeping into his forever tired bones. He stands by the window, legs crossed, and sighs as the drone finishes its speech and sprays particles all around. Bruce knows that it’s going to self-destruct next. He’d smash the damn thing in a second, but a lazy billionaire with slow reflexes can't perform such gymnastics, so Bruce stays put. The tech goes out with a puff of smoke. Bruce observes Kent taking small breaths and then coughing deeply like an idiot that he is. </p><p> </p><p>The interview was an afterthought, an easy path to good publicity after another Bruce Wayne fiasco with a model - which was nothing new, but she mentioned that Brucie was always away, going somewhere every night, never staying for cuddles or at least an early breakfast.<br/>
Oblivious to the model's suffering, Bruce was visiting Metropolis to check on some fishy dealings as Batman. He busted a group of really bad, shady people, but there might’ve been an explosion or two afterwards  - with an unfortunate footage of Batman fleeing the scene. That’s why Bruce couldn’t afford to let anyone make connection between his two personas - who had  happened to fuck up at the same time. The model kept giving interviews, though she was getting less and less attention as reports of Superman’s latest heroics overtook the news-cycle. By the time Alfred very pointedly served reheated breakfast as the model continued to babble on a TV as a background noise, Bruce had no choice but to succumb to a little image-cleaning. Thus an innocent, puppy-eyed reporter was graced with an honor of interviewing generous Bruce Wayne before a charity-gala event that Wayne Foundation was so selflessly holding the very next week.</p><p> </p><p>Bruce uses Kent’s coughing to push a hidden button on the table, presses a finger into self-injecting syringe and waits for the burning fog inside his mind to disappear. This sex-pollen is potent and fast. Bruce has less than a minute before the reporter will become a horny mess. Bruce can’t risk showing or explaining how he’s immune to this shit. So he’s going to pretend to be affected - after all, it’s part of the job. To protect Batman’s identity, so he can save Gotham over and over again.  What’s the worst that can happen?</p><p> </p><p>Kent furrows his brows, rubs his eyes and squints. Bruce waits a little. The whole building is in a lockdown right now and there’s no way to get away to a safe location without raising the reporter's suspicion. Bruce has calculated the probability of successful retreat - it is slim, to say the least. Even if he knocked the damn man out, poor guy would remember that the billionaire was absent for the most important part of sex-pollination, and it’d be too noticeable, too out of character. </p><p> </p><p>Bruce knows he has to begin acting interested in the other man - Kent is going to make his move any moment now, and Bruce would prefer to start this dance on his own terms. He's under no illusion that some miracle is going to save him from a terrible love-making with a countryside’s bumpkin. Bruce looks at Kent’s hunched form, really looks, and wonders if this good-natured four-eyed romantic ever thought about kissing another man, let alone fucking one. </p><p> </p><p>Bruce remembers his first time with a man, grinds his teeth, then rolls his shoulders back to alleviate some tension. That's when Bruce makes a decision  that  he's going to make sure the reporter’s (most likely) first time with a man will be as plain and forgettable as possible. It’s the best Bruce can offer. If he’s lucky, both of them will shake it off and end the meeting with an inspiring quote for the Daily Planet. Bruce glances at the reporter who finally stood up and now stares at Bruce, as if unsure what to do next, how to respond to the sudden desire that is currently overriding his whole being.  Then the man - Clark, his name is Clark, Bruce reminds himself -  takes a step forward, puts his notepad and pen on Bruce’s desk without looking, and moves into Bruce’s personal space. The reporter - Clark, damn it, Bruce better get used to it and fast -  places a warm, tender hand on Bruce’s cheek, and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. It's the sweetest, most innocent gesture Bruce has ever been on the receiving end of.  It's exhausting.  Bruce takes a deep breath, shuts his thoughts off and grabs Clark to give him a proper kiss. He knows he’s going to regret this day one way or another.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clark's point of view and an explicit continuation of the first chapter's events.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clark looks at the drone and doesn’t allow himself to burn a noisy device on the spot. He wants to, oh, he wants to. It takes him no time to realize what is going on, what’s going to happen and what he’ll have to do to cover up his identity. This ridiculous pollen is no threat to him, and yet. And yet.</p><p>For a split-second he wishes for the pollen to take away his will, so he’d have no choice but to have sex with Mr. Wayne, to touch him, kiss him, fuck him and not have a single thought or  any doubt. It’s a small weakness, like a gush of a wind. He’s better than that. He should be grateful that at least one of them would be in a semblance of control. He should be grateful, but he isn’t.<br/>
Clark rubs his eyes, hoping to come up with an alternative plan, with any plan which doesn’t involve losing another piece of himself and stepping on his own throat for the good of nameless people. Clark feels ashamed, he was raised better than that. What’s another small sacrifice in a long line of much harder ones? He’ll do whatever he must, even if he knows it’d cost him something that has no name and definition.</p><p>He’d probably get blacklisted from every big Metropolis event after having a fling with Gotham’s finest bachelor, what a loss. Clark almost laughs when he realizes how many girls would’ve wanted to take his place to get a chance at winning a heart (or at least a cock’s interest) of glorious Mr. Wayne. Who keeps standing by a window, looking as generic as every billionaire that had graced covers of financial magazines. </p><p>There’s no way to soften the blow, to play it down - Clark have read reports about previous sex-pollen cases. They were quite brutal and inhuman in its nature. They had destroyed lives and damaged relationships. Clark’s going to make sure that whoever created this pollen would be stopped and would face the consequences of their actions. Right now Clark has to face Mr. Wayne, and it fills him with dread. It’s a battle unlike any other he’d fought before and there’s no winning strategy in sight. </p><p>Clark starts moving towards the billionaire when he notices how tense the man looks and it stops him in his tracks. Clark should’ve known better than to presume that he’d just have to endure the other man’s advances (Clark refuses to think of the word “sex”, though it beats like a drum at the far corner of his mind). Because Clark’s life is never that easy. When was it ever?<br/>
Of course the notorious playboy that changes girls faster than tabloids could keep up with - of course he wouldn’t want to get down and dirty with a guy, let alone a low-life reporter. </p><p>Clark can almost see Mr. Wayne’s inner struggle between a pollen’s pull to have sex with anyone and his repulsion at having to do it with Clark. A flare of anger passes over Clark, quickly being replaced by pity and then shame - after all, the other man didn’t choose to be in this predicament either. He might not even be homophobic, and Clark chastises himself for thinking it in the first place.</p><p>He wishes he could spare the man regretful coming to senses after whatever they’ll have to do, Clark isn’t thinking about it yet - but he can’t risk knocking the billionaire out. The pollen doesn’t erase one's memories - making it harder to rebuild one’s life when everything is over. So there’s no possibility of a humble reporter suddenly becoming aggressive enough to damage Gotham’s finest till the craze passes over. It was actually one of the first ideas that flashed in Clark’s mind, and it was dismissed just as quickly. It's not Clark’s fault that he thinks of it again, even just for a brief, desperate moment.  </p><p>Clark takes off his glasses, puts them away on the table, along with a notepad and a pen, and makes himself move, one step at a time. He can’t prolong it any longer.  Up close, Mr. Wayne is looking less like a cutout from a magazine and more like a real, tired, wary man. Clark doesn’t dare to stare at the man for too long, so he places a hand on Mr. Wayne’s face, as if placating a skittish animal, and puts all his aching love for imperfect humanity into a tender kiss. Clark waits for a heartbeat, getting no reaction from the man, and then feels foolish and oh-so-human when Mr. Wayne manhandles him against the sturdy table and kisses him. </p><p>Oh! Oh.</p><p>Clark grabs Mr. Wayne’s shoulders to steady himself, and it’s so easy to slide fingers down, down, down, till they rumple up an expensive suit, till they’re holding closer a very firm body radiating heat through the thin layer of a smooth shirt. It’s just equally easy to kiss back as good as he gets. </p><p>Lois always said that Clark was a sentimental guy - and isn’t it the perfect time to remember Lois, wonderful, incredible, gorgeous Lois, who managed to remain his best friend after their amicable and quite predictable break-up. Clark knows that she’d pat his back with teasing “told you so” if she was here. Clark is feeling way too much when all he has to do is be a decent lay for a horny billionaire. </p><p>It's not fair that a simple act of kissing makes Clark question everything that he learned about this pompous, shallow man so far. Clark feels like he’s being shown another side of the man and it’s thrilling, it’s unexpected and exciting to see how Mr. Wayne speaks through a kiss. How he dominates the conversation but listens to what the partner has to say, how he leads and then ups the ante, only to pull back and tease, but not long enough to annoy, just to get a reaction and then kiss it over.</p><p>It’s a whole body experience, with Mr. Wayne’s shameless hands remapping Clark’s body as if they were in a dark room and whoever gave the best description of the partner's body at the exit, would win the prize. Mr. Wayne is winning and Clark is tagging along, not quite daring to touch and explore the other man’s body. It’s intriguing, but Clark isn’t sure if he’s allowed. It’d be an indulgence, and Clark can’t let himself enjoy this moment, not really. It’d feel off, like he’s taking advantage of Mr. Wayne’s sudden interest in him. It’s all because of the pollen's chemicals, and the less Clark would go off the script of a proper intercourse, the less awkward they would feel in the end.</p><p>Clark hums his approval when Mr. Wayne kisses his neck, biting lightly and licking offended places with wonderful eagerness. Clark isn’t made of stone. Besides, it’d be suspicious if he wouldn’t be into this whole ordeal. He’s supposed to be under the influence of the pollen after all. If he keeps repeating it, he might actually believe that it’s okay to enjoy the way the other man feels, pressed into Clark’s taut body. Self-deprecation never helped him in the past, but Clark can’t shake the nagging feeling of wrongness, of his own deficiency even in such a simple task. </p><p>Clark is lost in thoughts, berating himself and trying to will his libido into submission, so he doesn’t understand what is going on for a second too long, until Mr. Wayne is already sitting on his knees in front of Clark’s cheap and suddenly too tight trousers and is sliding firm fingers over Clark’s thighs. Clark feels like such an idiot. He wasn’t prepared for that. He was a damn fool for thinking that he’d know what to do. Suddenly, everything feels too real. Just this morning his biggest problem was another looming deadline, and now he has to decide if this charade is worth keeping up. His identity was a secret not for his own convenience but for the safety of people closest to him. And yet at this moment Clark is questioning if he's made the right decision.</p><p>Mr. Wayne slows down his movements and squeezes Clark’s thighs, getting him to look down at him. It is a small pause, a slight delay in an otherwise very fast-moving progression. Clark sees as his hand, on its own accord, moves to touch Mr. Wayne’s face. It’s a simple gesture and Clark doesn’t know what he wants to say with it. He just allows himself to feel the line of the other man’s cheekbone, the way his temple feels tender under his touch. Clark runs his fingers through Mr. Wayne’s surprisingly soft hair and finally brings himself to return the billionaire's questioning gaze. </p><p>Clark wonders if the other man looks like that when he’s really into someone, when he’s truly himself, a willing participant and not just hormones-driven version of himself. Clark holds Mr. Wayne’s hair tighter, a sudden urge to focus him, to shake him, to guide him, to challenge him, to wake him. Clark can see how Mr. Wayne pupils dilate, almost eating out the bright blue part of it. It’s a gorgeous sight, and Clark feels like he’s got punched in the solar plexus. It should be painful, this sudden realization that he’s compatible with this gorgeous, prideful man, sitting patiently on the knees in front of him. That he’d be willing to risk his broken and not quite mended heart just to get a chance to learn if this hunch, this intuitive knowledge is true. If Mr. Wayne is much more complicated than he’s allowing others to see. If the energy that he gives off right now is not a fluke, but an intricate, deliberate result of making choices, sacrifices and hard decisions, shaping himself into the man he is today. </p><p>Clark knows that his grip must be borderline painful now, but he can’t stop. He looks for his own answers - selfishly, desperately, hungrily. Whatever Mr. Wayne sees in Clark’s eyes, it makes him shudder almost imperceptibly, and he gets back to what he was doing before, but this time he moves faster, sharper and without much care for the state of Clark’s clothes. He tugs at Clark’s zipper and Clark feels elated by such eagerness, so he helps with the belt and then resumes his ministrations with Mr. Wayne’s hair while the other man frees Clark’s cock and takes a couple of quiet breaths before licking it. Clark tightens his grip - again - and Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem to mind, if his brilliant, hot, incredible mouth moving on Clark’s cock is any indication. </p><p>Clark isn’t really a vocal guy, all his life he was trained to control himself and his reactions. Well, turns out when you get your cock sucked in a middle of a meeting room after not getting affected by sex-pollen - it might change a guy. Clark whispers “mister” and doesn’t really get to breathe out “Wayne” part when the man in question stops abruptly, gets off Clark’s cock with an indecent popping sound, Clark’s glistening head still touching Mr. Wayne’s reddened lips. Clark doesn’t have time to panic, as Mr. Wayne says with a most obnoxious grin “I think you can call me Bruce now”, then winks at Clark, winks! - and goes down on Clark’s cock deeper than before. </p><p>Clark has trouble breathing, or thinking, but it’s not here not there. So he grabs Mr, no, Bruce’s hair, earning himself a careful but deliberate teeth’s grazing over the tender flesh of his cock, and closes his eyes shut. There’s risk of burning some ugly shapes in the ceiling if he doesn’t, and he’d rather avoid it, thank you very much.</p><p>Clark allows himself to be carried away by a wonderful, burning hot feeling that is consuming him and making him feel good, oh so good. Like he deserves it, like he’s worth all that trouble, like his pleasure is all that matters. Bruce hums something with Clark’s cock still buried in his mouth, vibrations of the sound making Clark use his free hand to steady himself. There might be finger-shaped dents in Bruce’s table now, but it’s hard to tell with everything around Clark feeling like the universe is breaking on its seams, like he’s going to explode and obliterate everything in a supernova.</p><p>Bruce continues to suck, lick, pump and hum into Clark’s skin, sometimes grazing Clark’s pubic hair with his nose. Clark knows that it should be weird or at least embarrassing, instead he moves his fingers from Bruce’s hair to his jaw, trying to feel it, as it moves over Clark’s cock. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind, though he glances at Clark once, pausing to lift his head a little, and Clark  yearns to own, to have, to tear, to feel every atom of that gorgeous man in front of him, staring back with dazed eyes, flushed cheeks and overused, glistening lips. Bruce tears his eyes away only to slowly, carefully take Clark’s cock as deep as his throat would allow. Clark feels the movement where his hand is touching Bruce’s jaw and it’s so impossibly hot, so physical and indecent, that Clark moans at the sight. Bruce’s eyes are watering with effort, yet Clark can’t bring himself to stop it, he’s not that strong. He wants this with the fire of the burning sun. Bruce gags a little, releasing Clark’s cock and Clark wipes at saliva that’s running from Bruce’s mouth. </p><p>It’s scary how much Clark wants to get everything that Bruce is willing to give. Clark wants to kiss the man and to continue fucking into his mouth. He wants to touch him, rough him up and lick every part of him till he trembles. Clark’s a mess. Bruce starts swallowing Clark so much faster than before and Clark doesn’t mind. He feels the waves of distant pleasure finally getting to him - from his toes to his neck, up and outwards. He thrusts his hips as far as Bruce’s steadying hands would allow. He whines, deep, honest sound reverberating through his being, and he surrenders, shutters and feels reborn as white strips of his cum draw random constellations over Bruce’s face. </p><p>Clark registers that Bruce keeps working his cock with sure fingers, not bothering to wipe cum from his cheeks or nose or lashes. So Clark does it for him. And it seems natural to lick his fingers afterwards, it’s faster. Bruce groans and finally, finally stands up to give Clark a sloppy, lazy kiss. Clark's hand moves to Bruce's still covered in clothes cock. It feels wonderfully alive and firm under Clark's touch. Bruce bites Clark's lower lip, tags at it, then drops his head into Clark's shoulder and silently comes, as Clark massages his palm over Bruce’s twitching cock. Clark wants to see and taste, but he's distracted by Bruce’s hands scratching over Clark’s stomach, then going back under the shirt and up, up, till both of them are pressed so tightly into each other it should hurt, but it feels like pure bliss.</p><p>Bruce presses his forehead into Clark’s temple and takes shallow breaths. Clark is drawing big circles over Bruce’s sturdy back. It’s heady. It’s simple. Clark never wants it to end. </p><p>So naturally it ends just then - with a loud knock on the door, followed by “Mr. Wayne, we are going in.” Clark barely has time to make himself presentable and is tucking his shirt in when men in hazmat suits bust in. Bruce is already staying a respectable distance away, looking as disheveled as Clark feels. </p><p>It’s all a blur of unimportant events afterwards - a small briefing, clothes’ decontamination, a ride home on a taxi (Mr. Kent, I insist), a bland-tasting dinner, an empty bed. </p><p>Clark doesn’t jump in his shabby work-chair the next day when someone turns up the volume of Mr. Wayne’s press-conference. He doesn’t. But he gives up pretending he doesn't care and looks up at the TV.<br/>
Mr. Wayne looks good. Unaffected. Posh and just a little sleazy. He tells that sex-pollen is being dealt with by the best scientist he can hire. He smiles and even winks once, though he tries to maintain somber mood in the face of an illness that can ruin other people’s lives. He also says one line that makes Clark's pulse accelerate - “I was interrupted before I could make another mistake of the day,” reporters in the audience laugh weakly and politely, “but I know others weren’t so lucky and I’m sorry. That’s why I’m using all my resources to...”</p><p>Clark didn’t expect any other comment, and yet he can't stop playing the part about “another mistake” in his mind like a broken record. He can almost taste the words, their meaning feeling bitter and poisonous.</p><p>He knew that Mr. Wayne would like to swipe whatever happened between them under the rug, erase it from his memory and make sure that no one would know about this particular transgression. Yet hearing it out loud, plain and simple, is hurtful. Clark tries to reason with himself, to remind himself that the other man must feel disgusted, repulsed and violated, and at the same time Clark can't shake the feeling that there was something real between them, something that no amount of hormone-altering drug could make them do. That Clark caught a glimpse of a true side of Mr. Wayne (and no, he can't bring himself to call him Bruce. It feels too personal, too full of hope, too foolish).</p><p>Clark notices that his phone is ringing, picks it up and feels his blood freeze when he realizes who’s on the other end of the line.</p><p>“Mr. Kent,” the other man's voice is smooth, professional and toneless. The greeting tells Clark everything he has to know about the call. He rubs the bridge of his nose, takes off his glasses and braces himself for the inevitable.</p><p>“Mr. Wayne, how are you today?” Clark wants to bang his head on the desk after asking that question. It implies that yesterday had happened and it didn't. It most definitely didn't.</p><p>“Good, good,” Mr. Wayne is dismissive and Clark is grateful for that. “I wanted to make sure that you're...” there is a slight hitch in a polished, casual inquiry, “Fine.”</p><p>Clark pauses. He was preparing himself for a possible “damage control” talk, yet it feels almost insulting to actually be on the receiving end of it. He'd never out the man or sell salacious tales to the highest bidder. But Mr. Wayne doesn't know that, and Clark tries to erase any hints of hurt annoyance from his voice as he replies. </p><p>“Yes, I am, thank you,” Clark feels almost proud of how professional and curt he sounds. Then, because he can be a masochistic idiot sometimes, he adds, “It's a mistake that you shouldn't worry about.”</p><p>Clark listens to a heavy silence with almost gleeful satisfaction. </p><p>“I see,” Mr. Wayne doesn't sound relieved or reassured. He sounds tired and Clark doesn't know why, “Goodbye then, Mr. Kent.”</p><p>Clark holds the phone tighter and replies automatically, “Goodbye, Mr. Wayne.”</p><p>The line goes dead and Clark feels like his stupid, irrational heart does the same.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They care for each other. They just don't know it yet.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not like Bruce is actively seeking Clark out. He’s just aware. So that he can avoid him.<br/>
In the end Bruce’s precautions are not necessary: on rare occasions when he attends Metropolis events or a journalist from The Daily Planet is invited to a Gotham one, it’s never Clark who covers them. It’s not even that surprising - Clark writes about other news, usually Superman-related. </p><p>Speaking of - Bruce couldn’t think of a worse timing for the freak of nature to appear. Bruce has almost finished collecting data about the pollen’s ingredients, which is going to tremendously help with an ongoing research, but his usual cover of being a rich and stupid billionaire having fun with a group of hopeful models is this close to being blown. Bruce sighs and doesn’t attempt to free himself from a pile of girls when Superman flies in and hovers too close for comfort. </p><p>For all intents and purposes Bruce is just having some fun during an after-party in Lex’s mansion. And an appearance of such a high-profile unwanted guest as Superman is bringing too much attention to Bruce’s activities. The plan was to sneak into Lex’s basement, drunkenly searching for a toilet and retrieve a chip with new data. Superman’s interference is going to alert security any minute now and quite possibly, knowing how paranoid Lex is (not that he is wrong), everyone would be very politely sent home. Bruce thinks of the quickest way to get rid of an alien.</p><p>“Care to join us, sweet bums?”, Bruce is calculating what the hell Superman is doing here in the first place and what would make him leave. </p><p>“I was here for an urgent…”, Superman started speaking at the same time as Bruce did and now he caught up on Bruce’s words, “What? No”. It’s almost cute how baffled he looks. How human his reaction is. How pure. Bruce wants him gone. Now.</p><p>“Are you coming or going?” Bruce isn’t afraid to use the cheesiest line to get Superman out of his hair. Bruce winks for a good measure. He hates this day and this moment in particular. Girls around him have already acclimated to the presence of another man in the room, so they resume their usual routine of touching and rubbing and sliding. It’d be distracting, but lately Bruce feels immune to any kind of seduction. Now he just wants them all gone. It’s impossible, but a man can dream.</p><p>Superman is still hovering in front of them. What a show-off. Bruce’s patience is wearing thin. He pats the space by his side and looks up at Superman invitingly. At least he hopes he looks invitingly and not as murderous and crazy as he feels. Superman finally moves from his spot. His sneer is too harsh for his symmetrical, proportional face (Bruce wouldn’t call it beautiful or gorgeous, besides he can’t quite put his finger on what is off with that face, but something is, something annoying, flickering, like a shadow movement that you noticed in your periphery but can’t prove it was there). Superman's look is full of contempt.</p><p>“No, I’m good.”</p><p>Bruce makes a disappointed face. Superman snorts and Bruce is again taken aback by how human and normal that is. Superman pauses to take a look at a scene in front of him - no doubt judging everyone as a prude prick that he is - then shakes his head and takes off as Lex’s men stumble into the room, weapons drawn, and Bruce feel like obliterating everyone around him, with Superman holding a special place in his heart. He’d murder him on spot if it were physically possible. Bruce is eager to find out.</p><p>The chip with collected data appears at the research center the next day. Bruce feels less murderous, but not enough to stop plotting Superman’s untimely demise. Just to pass time between being a parody of a rich spoiled man and a gloomy, angry vigilante. There’s no bite to Bruce’s daydreaming. It’s just easier to make schemes of capturing Superman than to think of what most definitely didn’t really happen and was a humongous, terrible mistake. No, not going there. Superman is a safe topic and Bruce is sticking to it.</p><p>Bruce is definitely not keeping tabs on Clark’s whereabouts in Gotham. He just happens to know about the visit and to be patrolling nearby when a 911-call from an anonymous source alerts him to a possible Clark-related emergency. The man was in an abandoned warehouse when there was an explosion. A worker, who was with him at a time, managed to escape before parts of the building collapsed. Stupid, brave reporter didn’t.</p><p>Batman is there in a record time. He scans the building’s structure and finds a heat source. He knows that the police are coming, but he’s not leaving the idiot’s life in their hands. Bruce uses the top window to get in and carefully glides down to a dusty form lying on a ground under a piece of cement. Clark, miraculously, seems fine, maybe slightly annoyed with this predicament. Bruce feels a fond smile forming on his lips, and he wipes it before it has a chance to appear and give him away. </p><p>Clark is breathing steadily and Bruce is relieved that the reporter is okay. Now he’ll just have to move that…</p><p>“Stop!” Clark’s yelp makes Bruce freeze in his tracks and look around for possible danger. Belatedly he notices a blinking device attached to a column nearby. Another bomb, most likely a movement-activated one. As the warning sounds of the device quicken, Bruce rushes to free Clark so that he’d get a chance of escaping, and if he’ll cover him, the Bat suit will absorb most of the blow. As Bruce moves toward Clark, he notices a myriad of emotions passing on the other man's face: fear (understandable), anger (talk about being ungrateful), resignation (well, this is new) and determination.</p><p>Bruce doesn’t have time to analyze the last one, since he notices that the cement wall started to move before he even had a chance to get to it, and then Clark is hugging him and then they’re standing on the roof. Oh, wait, a very important correction, they’re flying over the roof, and Clark’s breathing as steady as his hands feel. Clark lowers them on the far side of the building, away from the smoke and rubber and dust. Bruce is processing new information, filing it away and backtracking everything that he knew. It’s definitely too much. It’s infuriating. Yet Bruce wouldn’t trade it for the world. Bruce stares at the man in front of him. Clark is avoiding his eyes. He looks defeated and sad. Like he just lost a very important battle. So Bruce does the only thing that his shaken body wants to do - he touches Clark’s face with his gloved hand. It’s an awkward gesture, but it makes Clark look up and pause.</p><p>“Oh.” Clark squints, then lowers his gaze to Bruce’s lips, as if to make sure, and huffs a quiet laugh. Then he straightens and looks Bruce in the eyes. “We’ve got to talk.” </p><p>Bruce wants to roll his eyes at the seriousness of Clark's tone. It’s he who should be worried or angry. Instead, he’s calm and maybe a little bit excited. He’d never admit it, of course. So he rumbles, “Sure,” and prepares to get away, when a hand stops him.</p><p>“Bruce,” there is a hint of a question there. Clark looks defiant and vulnerable at the same time. Bruce isn’t made for these types of conversations. And he doesn’t need this, whatever it is. It’s too much effort. It’s too complicated and dangerous. It’s unnecessary. Yet Clark keeps waiting, the sirens blaring in the distance, and Bruce feels like he’s taking a step off a skyscraper when he says “It was never a mistake.” And if the way Clark’s face softens at these words is any indication, Bruce is going to be caught by Superman in his free fall.</p>
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